At Dawn They Sleep
by ScarlettWatson
Summary: Vamp!lock AU set at the end of The Great Game, written for the Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange for a prompt requesting Explicit Vamp!lock Fluff. The confrontation with Moriarty at the pool goes very differently, and the resulting revelations trigger a significant change in Sherlock's relationship with John.
1. The First Revelation

This story was written for the Johnlock Challenges November Gift Exchange, for Stormwingsong, who requested explicit vamp!lock fluff. It will be three chapters long, but I have to do some proofreading and finalizing before I get the next two posted. The explicit part starts in Chapter 3, so if that bothers you, the first two chapters should be safe. Enjoy! (Crossposted to AO3.)

Standard disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I make any profit from this story. I just do it because I love it.

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Sherlock Holmes stepped out into the pool area of the darkened building. The underwater lights cast strange ripples and reflections around the large space, bathing the room in an otherworldly illumination.

"Brought you a little 'getting to know you' present," he called out, his voice echoing just slightly in the large open space as he held a flash drive up in one hand. "That's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles, making me dance? All to distract me from this." He moved in a slow circle, peering into the dark corners of the room as he waited for a response. He was here, Sherlock knew. He had to be. It was too poetic, too elegant for him to stay away.

Movement caught his eye, and he looked up quickly to see… to see… John, stepping out of a changing stall beside the pool.

"Evening," John said, his voice perfectly flat and emotionless. "This is a turn-up, isn't it Sherlock?"

And Sherlock went still, frozen, perfectly and entirely shocked for possibly the first time in his long long life. He just stood, blinking stupidly at John. John? Could it really be…? He knew he should be taking some action, doing something – extending his senses, rushing at John, letting his body take over and preparing himself to fight, _something_ – but he could do none of it. He could only stand and stare and wait for the world to make sense again.

"John," he breathed out. Only that, a statement, not a question. All he could hear in his head, all he could say, was just John's name.

"Bet you didn't see this coming," John said next, his voice still cold and dead, strangely stilted, and all Sherlock could do was silently agree. He absolutely did not.

"What would you like me to make him say next?" John said then, slowly, his voice making a strange cadence as he pronounced the sentence. And as he spoke, John finally moved, pulling open the bulky winter parka to reveal… Semtex… oh bloody hell, so much Semtex, and a red dot from a sniper sight appeared on his chest. And for the barest second Sherlock felt nothing but relief, relief that John had not betrayed him, was not secretly, cruelly observing and taunting him this entire time. That John really was as bizarrely loyal as he seemed, that John was in fact the friend Sherlock had believed him to be.

Surging up hard and instantly on the heels of the relief was terror, a deep penetrating fear at the sight of his friend, his one and only completely beloved John, wrapped in explosives. The depth of the emotion, so new and raw and unfamiliar, staggered him, sucking down on his limbs, rendering him weak and heavy and fragile. He blinked stupidly at John and remained silent, completely unable to form a sentence.

"Gottle o'gear, gottle o'gear, gottle o'gear," John parroted, expression shuttered, his voice cracking on the third repetition and dropping to a whisper. And rage rose up in Sherlock, dampening the fear and bringing strength and power back into his body. Rage that anyone, _anyone,_ would dare to touch _his_ John, his friend, his healer and his warrior, would threaten and intimidate him, would fill his mouth with cruel words and force him to dance on their behalf.

"Stop it," he said, making an effort to keep his fury out of his voice.

"Nice touch, this," John continued, still speaking in that odd cadence as he repeated someone else's words. "The pool, where little Carl died. I stopped him, I could stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."

"Who are you?" Sherlock turned again, fully extending his senses this time, dragging his awareness across the large room. The water made it difficult to clearly feel the space immediately around the pool, casting ripples and reflections back at his mind when he bent his will in that direction. Nevertheless, he tried his best to penetrate the area with his mind, searching for some sense of an unseen presence.

"I gave you my number, thought you might call," an unfamiliar voice, strangely singsong and high-pitched, rang out into the room. At the same time, Sherlock saw the air about twenty feet behind John start to shift and blur, twisting and bending, drawing a distorted shape in the open space alongside the edge of the pool that finally resolved into… the form of a small, slight, young-looking man in a well-cut designer suit.

Sherlock stared, bringing all of his powers of observation to bear on the unassuming man as he stepped forward. Something about his appearance was familiar, and he exuded an aura of dark, dangerous power, appearing to Sherlock's enhanced senses as a cloud of reddish black mist accompanied by an odour at once sweet and sulfurous. He found himself wanting to rub at his nose, despite the fact that there was no actual smell.

"Jim Moriarty," he said to Sherlock, still in that strange high voice. "Hi!" He sounded almost indecently gleeful as he tipped Sherlock a little wave. The name tripped something in his brain, and suddenly he knew why the man looked familiar. "Jim? Jim from the hospital?" Moriarty continued, voice conveying an exaggerated tone of surprise. "Did I really make such a fleeting impression? Although I suppose that was rather the point." His face wore a look of dark cruel humor as he sauntered forward toward Sherlock and John.

Sherlock squinted, extending his senses to carefully caress the disturbing aura that encircled Moriarty. The feel of it was unpleasant, echoing in his brain and leaving behind a sensation of dirty, crackling hunger. Sherlock had never sensed anything like it before, and he recoiled instinctively from the sensation, slamming down the barriers in his brain. Moriarty smirked.

How had he not felt this when he met Moriarty in the hospital, when he was pretending to date Molly? The man had no aura then, nothing that would attract Sherlock's attention. And he certainly would have noticed something like this. Moriarty's aura absolutely screamed danger and madness to anyone able to sense such things.

"Nice to finally meet you as myself, Sherlock. Oh, may I call you Sherlock? You can call me Jim," Moriarty continued, grinning widely, still walking toward where Sherlock was standing.

"Oh, yes, of course," Sherlock answered, voice dripping sarcasm. "Lovely to meet you as well." He could see John's eyes widen slightly as he stood, staring straight ahead over Sherlock's shoulder, but he did not dare to take his eyes off of Moriarty.

"I had heard so much about you, you know, before I decided to get in touch. I've been just _dying_," and here he lets out a short, high giggle, "to see what you can do. And I have to say, you did not disappoint."

Sherlock allowed himself to smirk at this comment, attempting to convey an attitude of flattered nonchalance while his mind raced. He needed to get John to safety, first and foremost, but he was also intrigued by this new enemy. How had he not heard of him before?

Moriarty approached until he was standing just behind John, whose jaw was clenched tight as he continued to stare straight ahead, avoiding Sherlock's eyes. Moriarty leaned over his shoulder until his mouth was hovering over John's neck just below his ear, eyes dropping to lock on the column of flesh as he licked his lips. John swallowed audibly when Moriarty drew in a long, deep breath. The rage Sherlock had been feeling spiked up in him as he watched the scene, and he could not stop himself from taking a step forward. At the movement, Moriarty's eyes jumped up to look at him.

"Your pet here and I had a good talk before you arrived," Moriarty said, his mouth still just above John's neck, watching Sherlock closely. Suddenly afraid, Sherlock stopped where he was, looking back at Moriarty unblinkingly. "At first, I assumed he was just protecting you, but then I decided that he really didn't know. And isn't that _interesting_?" Moriarty's smile was indecently large as he lilted the word "interesting", and Sherlock could see the pointed tips of his incisors peeking between his lips. The sight of Moriarty's fangs that close to John's skin made his stomach clench with a sickening combination of anger, fear, and a muddled collection of other unidentifiable emotions.

Still working to affect indifference, Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave a little shrug, exhaling hard. "I don't see why," he answered. "I'd rather talk about you."

"Hmmm," Moriarty purred out, his eyes on John's neck again. "What do you want to know?"

"Why haven't I heard about you before? Someone as… skilled as you are should have been making waves well before now." Sherlock tried his hand at flattery, in case it would ingratiate him to the madman, but he knew he was not very good at it.

Moriarty leaned back just a little bit from John, his eyes once again on Sherlock, his expression amused.

"Boring," he called out in his singsong voice. "Come now, Sherlock, you can do better than that."

Sherlock's mind spun for a moment before the answer hit him like a brick. Yes, Moriarty was right, he could do better. His fear was clouding his thoughts, and that was a dangerous thing in this situation. He squeezed his eyes tight as he berated himself, before opening them to look up at Moriarty again.

"Obvious. You're young."

"Yes, good," Moriarty answered, as if he was praising a small child for correctly finding a sum. "I had my… new birthday, I guess you'd say, about ten years ago."

Moriarty's words drove an icy spike of fear through Sherlock's stomach. Ten years. Just long enough for a young vampire to become highly proficient in their Talents. Just long enough to shake off the persistent human tendency to obey rules, to embrace an existence without limitations, to be keen to push things to the boundary of what was possible. Just long enough to feel invincible.

He remembered being young himself, dimly. It had been a very long time, hundreds of years, but he remembered the feeling, as if he were above everything, separate, as if there were no consequences for his actions, and therefore he was free to do whatever he desired. And often, there really were none.

Sherlock remembered hurting, killing, destroying. Taking human lives as he fed, and taking them for no reason. He remembered seducing humans for fun, men and women, taking them to bed, and draining them dry, bathing in their blood for no other reason than because he could. He remembered honing his skills, stretching and flexing his Talents until he had mastered them, using up person after person in his pursuit of perfection with no regard and no consideration.

Sherlock, like all vampires who survived past their twenty-fifth year, had eventually outgrown this phase. He had come to recognize the value of the humans he had treated with such cruelty and disregard, to respect the fact that each had their own unique skills, to tolerate the company of some of them. He felt some degree of remorse for his behavior toward humans in the past, and was careful to avoid killing them now, even when he was driven to feed.

It was only very recently, relatively speaking, that he had felt anything more for a human than simple tolerance. He actually cared about Mrs. Hudson, and genuinely liked Lestrade. And it was even more recently that he had experienced the emotion of love for the first time in his life. Mycroft had had a good laugh over that, too. He had been telling Sherlock for years that it would happen eventually. He insisted that, when a being lived as long as Mycroft had, as long as Sherlock certainly would if he avoided doing anything stupid, the chances of encountering someone that you could not help but love became so high as to become a near-certainty. And Sherlock had scoffed and rolled his eyes and made pointed comments about Mycroft's waistline, which had been frozen by his transformation at a size just slightly larger than the older vampire was happy with, making him permanently insecure. And then John Watson had wandered into Sherlock's life, with his unnecessary cane and his wooly jumpers and his steady trigger finger, and Sherlock had to eat his words.

And now John, the very same John who had so casually destroyed all of Sherlock's walls with his concern and his criticism and his gentle, devastating devotion, John was standing here beside this darkened pool wearing twenty pounds of explosives, with a sniper's sight trained over his heart and a ten-year-old vampire breathing inches from his neck.

Terror and fury warring for control of his mind, Sherlock continued to show only calm nonchalance as he spoke. "So, significantly younger than me, then," he said, tossing his head dismissively. Again, he observed John's eyes widen a fraction as he spoke, and he realized that he had given himself away. Moriarty had undoubtedly told John what he was, but John was unlikely to believe someone who was strapping him to a bomb. However, as Sherlock ran through all of the possible outcomes of this confrontation in his mind, he could not see an alternative. One way or another, by the end of this evening John would know for certain that Sherlock was a vampire.

Well, nothing for it then. Sherlock would just have to deal with John's reaction as it came, whatever it happened to be. Right now, getting out of this with John still alive was a much higher priority.

"Indeed," Moriarty answered him calmly, still smiling. From where he stood behind John, his aura was creeping forward, winding dark, sickly-looking tendrils through and around John's sturdy form. The sight made Sherlock feel sick. "Quite a bit younger, yes, but just as powerful. And just as Talented," Moriarty continued.

Sherlock cocked his head, his attention falling entirely on Moriarty now. All vampires had Talents, which manifested once they were turned, and developed fully with use. Some Talents were more powerful than others, and some few vampires were strong enough to become extremely skilled in more than one Talent. Only a very few ever developed more than two Talents, and fewer still did so to any significant degree. Sherlock, of course, had mastered three Talents, and was the only vampire he had ever heard of besides Mycroft and, of course, their Maker – whom they still called Mummy even after all this time – to have done so.

"How can you be certain?" Sherlock asked, genuinely curious. His Talents were not common knowledge, and he preferred it that way. Only Mummy and Mycroft knew the extent to which he had developed them.

"Telling you would be playing fair," Moriarty responded with a smirk. He took a small step back from John, and Sherlock felt his stomach unclench minutely. "But it is true. Shall I prove it? Would you like to see what I can do?" He grinned again, wide and toothy and terrifying, his attention focused suddenly and intently on Sherlock, as if he had forgotten that John was standing there.

"I already saw your skill at Veiling," Sherlock answered, doing his best to appear bored and uninterested, although he was in fact keenly curious which Talents Moriarty had. And he had to admit, the Veiling had been impressive. Typically, even with the distortions caused by the water, he would have been able to sense at least a hint of a presence despite the Veil. Standing water, after all, did not distort as severely as running water. The fact that Moriarty had been able to conceal himself completely from Sherlock's senses indicated an extremely powerful Veiling Talent.

"Oh yes, that's right, you did," Moriarty responded gleefully, speaking at a strange accelerated rate and giving a little self-deprecating shrug. "Would you like to guess my other Talents?"

_Talents. Plural._ He was claiming to have mastered three, then, just as Sherlock had. Sherlock took a moment to try to work out how Moriarty could have discovered his secret, but could not settle on an answer that seemed likely. Neither Mycroft nor Mummy would have given such information to anyone, let alone such an obviously unhinged young vampire.

"Oh, I don't know, maybe Artistry?" Sherlock answered, deliberately selecting one of the Talents considered less impressive by the larger vampire community in an attempt to goad Moriarty into revealing himself.

"Wrong!" Moriarty called out, loud and high-pitched and vaguely musical. "Let me show you another, then!"

Stepping forward again, Moriarty locked his gaze on the back of John's neck and appeared to concentrate. Very quickly, Sherlock sensed an intensifying in the dirty aura coiling around Moriarty. The tendrils whipping around the edges of the miasma started to thicken and darken, and again Sherlock sensed the smell of sulfur, this time combined with a horrible rotting odour, like garbage left in the sun. He relaxed minutely as he observed this, because whatever it was, this was not the Talent he most feared Moriarty to have, the one he himself had mastered but never, ever used. Not anymore. This was not Glamour.

As Sherlock watched, the tendrils of Moriarty's aura reached toward John. As they licked against his body, John started to tense, wrinkling his nose. The tendrils grew thicker, darker, and started to move across John's limbs. John twitched, a little aborted attempt to take a step, and his head started to swing from side to side. His eyes jumped around, moving quickly and restlessly around the room, and his breathing accelerated.

"Oh, Johnny Boy!" Moriarty exclaimed, still in his disturbingly gleeful voice, as if he had just remembered John was there. John flinched visibly and cringed away from the sound of his voice. "Remember, Johnny, don't move. My snipers are a little quick on the trigger, and they must be getting bored by now. Wouldn't want to end this little meeting prematurely, would we?" As he spoke, his aura continued to darken and embrace John.

John swallowed and stood straighter, but from his position in front of John Sherlock could see that his eyes were moving more frantically, his breathing faster. And his whole body was wracked with tremors, his hands clenching and unclenching tightly at his sides. Sherlock had to fight the almost overwhelming urge to go over and snatch John away from the creeping darkness of Moriarty's miasma, but he resisted. If Moriarty did not see how much this affected him, perhaps he would stop targeting John.

"Repulsion, is it?" Sherlock asked, voice toneless. "A bit localized, though. Repulsion is more useful when you can do it at a distance." When he spoke, John's darting eyes jumped to him, and he appeared to relax just slightly. Well, that was… interesting. Sherlock filed the reaction away to study later.

Moriarty threw back his head and cackled. "Oh yes, that's true. But I can anchor mine. And once I set it, it will keep for years." At this, Sherlock's head snapped around, fixing Moriarty with his gaze. He had never heard of anchoring a Repulsion to a single location, or of one that remained in place once the vampire stopped directing his energy into it. "Would you like to see, Sherlock?"

Moriarty focused again on John, briefly, and then turned and walked away. Around John, the tendrils of reddish black aura stopped thickening and, as Moriarty left, broke off from the body of his aura, settling into the ground and continuing to coil around John's limbs. Once he was a reasonable distance away, Moriarty turned to look at Sherlock, smirking. His aura was clearly disconnected from the Repulsion wrapped around John, but the Repulsion remained in place, and remained as powerful as it was when Moriarty stopped feeding it. John just stood, teeth gritted, body trembling, staring straight at Sherlock. Sweat had broken out across his brow and dripped down his face.

"Impressive," Sherlock commented grudgingly. He hoped now that if he acknowledged Moriarty's power, he might release John more quickly from the Repulsion, which must be filling him with nearly overwhelming fear. If John stayed wrapped in a Repulsion of that strength long enough, he would almost certainly break and run, which would result in drawing sniper fire. Or worse, he might end up cracking mentally from the strain. Sherlock was not sure what effect such a Repulsion would have on someone suffering from PTSD, but he did not imagine it could be good.

Moriarty smiled widely at Sherlock's comment. "But before I show you my third Talent, it's your turn, my dear. Tell me about yours."

Sherlock calculated quickly. Moriarty claimed to already know about Sherlock's Talents, which made this question unnecessary. So either it was a test, or he was bluffing. Either answer seemed reasonable to Sherlock, but how to tell? He carefully phrased his answer before responding to Moriarty's request.

"I have a Talent for Languages."

"Languages…" Moriarty cocked his head, letting the word trail off and watching Sherlock carefully. Sherlock remained silent, looking back at him calmly. After a moment, Moriarty's smile fell from his face and he glared at Sherlock.

"Including music, which is, after all, just another form of Language," Moriarty said, his voice cold and sharp for the first time during the conversation. "Do not attempt to hold anything back from me, Sherlock. You would do well to remember that." He took several swift steps forward, stopping when the edge of his aura reached the Repulsion he had anchored around John. Very swiftly, power poured into the existing Repulsion, causing the tendrils to thicken and tighten around John's body. John responded with a low whimper, his eyes rolling wildly in his head as the tremors shaking his body intensified. But still he did not move.

Sherlock knew that he was not able to keep his concern from his face this time, and Moriarty grinned again as he took in Sherlock's expression.

"He's strong, isn't he?" Moriarty asked, turning his eyes to John and studying him the way that Sherlock himself might study a novel strain of bacteria. "I've broken other men, men who looked much tougher, with half as much power." He shrugged and turned to face Sherlock again.

"Release him," Sherlock found himself saying without meaning to. He swallowed, and then tried again. "He is strong, but he'll crack if you don't."

"That's what people do!" Moriarty shouted, appearing suddenly and intensely angry. Sherlock froze, staring back at Moriarty, mind racing.

"If you destroy him, I will never tell you what you want to know," Sherlock finally said, after the echoes of Moriarty's outburst died down. "I will die first."

Moriarty stared at Sherlock, who help his eyes steadily, unblinking. John let out a stifled whining sound, shuddering so hard he could barely remain upright, but Sherlock schooled his expression and did not shift his gaze. After several impossibly long moments, a lifetime, an eternity, a slow reptilian smile slid across Moriarty's face and he nodded. Sherlock could not shake the horrible feeling that this was the first true, genuine smile he had seen from the other man.

"Of course, Sherlock. You only needed to ask," Moriarty said in an unctuous, ingratiating voice. Sherlock fought the urge to wipe the palms of his hands on his coat at the sound.

Moriarty turned to regard John for a moment, his face blank. Almost immediately, the thick dark tendrils of filth wrapping around John's limbs started to dissipate. As they faded, John's spine slumped and he shook harder, little squeaky whimpers escaping from his tightly clenched lips. As the last vestiges of the Repulsion disappeared, John's legs gave out and he dropped to his knees, panting as if he had been running, sweat dripping from his face.

Sherlock was unable to stop himself from taking three swift steps to John and kneeling beside him, bringing one hand to rest gently against his cheek. John flinched away, and Sherlock immediately dropped his hand and stood, stifling the little twinge of hurt he felt at John's obvious fear and turning his eyes once more to Moriarty. Rage pulsed in him, fierce and hot. His fangs, deliberately kept retracted until now, suddenly punched down into the space of his mouth and he knew his eyes were glowing red. Moriarty looked back calmly, a lightly amused expression on his face.

"Now it's your turn, my dear. What other Talents do you have?"

Sherlock swallowed, flicking his eyes down to John, who was still kneeling on the floor, his head hanging down. Straightening his spine, he turned his glare back on Moriarty.

"I have Farsight," he bit out angrily.

"Ohhhhh!" Moriarty trilled, sounding delighted. "That's a rare one, isn't it? And so useful for a detective!"

"I don't use my Talents in my work. As I'm sure you know," Sherlock answered, anger throbbing in his voice now despite his best intentions.

"Mmm," Moriarty made a soft noncommittal noise, looking at Sherlock with his head tilted slightly to one side like a curious puppy. "Do you have to have touched the objects, or is just seeing them enough?"

"Either," Sherlock answered reluctantly, gritting his teeth. "I can also locate objects from photographs, and even find things that have only been described to me, if the description is thorough enough." Sherlock carefully did not mention that he could usually see about a meter in all directions around the object when he used his Farsight, nearly three times further than anyone else he had ever hear of. That was a secret no one knew, not even Mycroft, and there was no way Moriarty could have that information.

"Description only? My, my, my," Moriarty said in an unimpressed voice. So he had already known after all. "So impressive. And what is your third Talent, darling?"

Sherlock went rigid, unable to stop himself from stiffening. Moriarty's head perked up, his attention focused on Sherlock like a laser as he waited for a response.

"No," Sherlock said, his voice flat.

"I'm sorry?"

"You heard me. I won't discuss it."

"Oh no?" Moriarty asked in a cheerful tone. His eyes drifted back down to John where he knelt on the tiles, and another reptilian grin stretched his lips. "Are you quite certain of that?" He stepped forward again until he was standing just behind John and brought one hand up to gently ruffle John's hair. John cringed forward, away from Moriarty's touch, his head down and his shoulders hunched. Sherlock growled out loud, unable to stop the sound from escaping.

"Don't. Touch. Him."

"So possessive, aren't you?" Moriarty tittered, leaning forward a bit to stroke John's hair again. "And he's not even yours, not properly. He could be though, couldn't he? You could take him, whether he likes it or not. Your third talent is Charm, right?"

Sherlock felt a jolt of relief at Moriarty's inaccurate deduction, and took a deep breath as he prepared to answer with a pretty and well-constructed lie.

"Oh, no, wait," Moriarty continued before Sherlock could respond, his voice sly, watching his own hand move across John's hair. "I misspoke, didn't I? When you develop Charm past a certain point, it's called something else. Your third Talent is Glamour…," and Moriarty's eyes came up to meet Sherlock's, his gaze bright and sharp as a razor blade, "…same as mine."

Sherlock's stomach dropped and a wave of nausea passed through him so suddenly that he feared for a moment he might vomit on the floor. He fought to stiffen his knees, to keep the horror he was feeling from showing on his face. He barely managed to hold in a shocked whimper as he continued to meet Moriarty's lizard gaze. Glamour, in the hands of this monster? Oh fuck. Oh bloody buggering fuck.

Charm was a relatively common talent among vampires. It was a useful tool for getting a meal without struggle, for clouding human minds to avoid detection. Usually, all Charm did was incite a temporary state of docility and obedience in humans, a desire to please the vampire wielding the talent combined with a confused recollection of anything that happened while under its influence. Some vampires, who had a particularly strong skill in Charm, could hold humans in their sway for extended periods of time, and some had been known to use the Talent to create a group of loyal humans to use as protection and a reliable food source.

Very few vampires, if their Talent was powerful enough, could eventually develop it into full Glamour. Sherlock was one of the few. As, evidently, was Moriarty.

The difference between Charm and Glamour was of strength and duration. Charm ranged in strength from mild influence to strong compulsion, and may last from a few minutes to a few months. Glamour, on the other hand, compelled total and complete obedience in the individuals to which it was applied, who were commonly called thralls.

Glamour functioned by essentially inducing in the thrall a state of intense, soul-deep, all-consuming love for the vampire who cast it. Thralls were possessed by the overwhelming need to please their vampire, to serve them. Thralls lost all of the person that they were when the Glamour was cast, and became nothing but a hollow shell in the shape of a human, existing only to provide service to the vampire. And Glamours were permanent. Once applied, they could not be removed without causing immediate death to the thrall. Also, if the vampire who cast the Glamour was killed, or simply lost interest in the thrall and left them behind, the thrall would die, typically by sitting still and refusing to move or eat until they starved to death or died of exposure.

Sherlock had honed his Talent for Glamour very early in his time as a vampire, back when he still thought of humans as walking disposable food containers. He had created thrall after thrall just for the practice, using them as experiments to test the parameters of his Talent. He knew from firsthand experience that being stripped of the Glamour killed the thrall, as well as what happened when their vampire lost interest in them. He knew exactly how much of the original self remained after a Glamour was applied – very little, just repetitive habits and routines, but not the capacity to think independently, to reason or solve problems. He knew how desperately a thrall would fight to do what their vampire willed, even if the result was significant pain and injury to themselves.

His development of the Glamour talent, and the things he did to achieve it, remained the only acts that Sherlock regretted in his several hundred years of existence. Since he matured, since he started to recognize the value of the humans around him, to enjoy their company and attention, and especially since he met John Watson, Sherlock had often wished he could undo his past and rid himself of the Talent of Glamour, of his cruel and vicious behavior. To destroy another's mind, human or otherwise, was abhorrent to him now, and he often remembered with deep self-loathing the number of minds he burned out when he was young and reckless and stupid. He had not used his Glamour in more than one hundred years, and most days he strove to forget he had the Talent at all.

Moriarty was watching the thoughts flicker across Sherlock's face with obvious glee, his fingers still twined in John's hair.

"Now that I've seen what you can do, Sherlock, and you've seen some of what I can do, I have a proposition for you." Moriarty's voice dropped to a low, smooth tone. He suddenly sounded far less insane, and much more cunning. "I am impressed, which is not something I say often. And I think you are as well. If we combined our Talents, there's nothing the two of us couldn't accomplish. I would like to propose a partnership."

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "I have no interest in partnership of any kind."

"Oh, come now, Sherlock!" Moriarty admonished in his singsong voice. "There's no way that a Talented vampire such as yourself could possibly be content with the small, unimportant life you lead. Solving petty little _crimes, _consorting with petty little _humans,_" and here he gives John's hair a yank, drawing a wince. "You're meant for something more, something special."

"Not. Interested," Sherlock bit out, his eyes fixed on John's face.

Moriarty let out a disappointed breath. "Still too attached to your pet, here, are you? Shame, that." He smiled suddenly. "Well, since I've shown you my other two Talents, my dear, I think it would only be fair to show you my third as well," he said in a disturbingly cheerful voice. At these words, Sherlock's heart seized painfully and he took a step forward. "All I need is a volunteer from the audience. Anyone? Anyone?" Moriarty made an obvious pantomime of looking around the deserted pool, holding one hand over his eyes as if to ward off bright lights. After a moment, his eyes turned down to John and he feigned surprise. "Oh, yes, you'll do nicely."

Sherlock's mind raced, and he watched in slow motion as Moriarty turned his head down to regard John. He had to protect John, _had to!_ He could not allow Moriarty to Glamour John under any circumstances. But he only knew of two possible ways to prevent a Glamour from taking hold, and both were unacceptable for John.

Moriarty's aura started to thicken again, shimmering a more uniform red, and slim tendrils started to gather along the edge nearest John's head. Sherlock's thoughts spun as fast as they ever had, but still no alternatives presented themselves. He had done more experimentation into Glamour than any other vampire he had heard of, and the two options he already knew remained the only solutions he could identify.

His choices were these: He could kill John, now, before Moriarty's Glamour set in; or, he could Glamour John himself. Those were absolutely the only acts that could prevent John from becoming Moriarty's thrall.

Moriarty looked up at him again with a grin, and then the thin red tendrils writhing on the edge of his aura struck out, stabbing toward John's head.

Sherlock instantly made his choice, gathering together all of the strength and skill he had developed through years of amoral experimentation and lashing out with his own power. And, as the deepest self-hatred he had ever experienced roared through his soul, he cast his Glamour at John.


	2. The Second Revelation

Sherlock's power sliced through the wriggling tendrils of Moriarty's aura, sending a shuddering tremor of revulsion through Sherlock's mind. The recoiling fragments of the aura snapped back, and Sherlock dimly saw Moriarty stagger backward and drop to one knee, shaking his head as if to clear his vision. Then his own aura wrapped around and through John's mind, and he lost all awareness of his surroundings.

He could feel his Glamour slide into place, slotting neatly into John's brain, pouring influence and dominance into his mind. There was no way to soften the blow, to hold back and stop himself from taking over John's brain with his Talent, not if he wanted to prevent Moriarty from Glamouring John instead. However, once this was done, no one would ever be able to Glamour John again; only one Glamour could ever be applied to a human mind – Sherlock knew this from direct experience as well. Any further attempts would simply slide off, as though the openings in the human mind that made them susceptible to the effects of the Glamour were no longer accessible.

The feeling inside his mind was purely and uniquely _John_, and Sherlock experienced it as warm and comforting, the gentle touch against his own mind almost soothing despite the ever-present underlying current of strength and danger that pervaded John's subconscious. Sherlock reveled in the feeling for a moment, just a moment, before deliberately pulling back, Glamour locked in place. And as he returned to his own awareness, blinking hard at the sudden shock of being back in his own mind, he had never hated himself and what he was more.

Moriarty was just climbing back to his feet, his delighted grin huge and obscene as he looked from Sherlock to John. And John, still kneeling on the tiles where he fell when he was freed from Moriarty's revulsion, was looking up at Sherlock with an expression of awed adoration, his mouth hanging slightly open.

Sherlock felt his heart clench painfully as he looked at John, his John, whom he had now destroyed. He had thought about, _dreamed about_ seeing this expression on John's face, love and adoration directed at him, only for him. But not like this, never like this. His eyes burned, and it was only the reflexive habit of years that stopped him from weeping.

"My, you really are quite good," Moriarty said in his singsong voice. "I wasn't sure you could do it, once I had already started, but look at that. Your very own little pet, and now he really is totally yours, isn't he? You can thank me later."

Sherlock jolted when Moriarty first began speaking, having nearly forgotten he was there as he sank into a well of bitterness and self-loathing. Looking up, he was confronted with Moriarty's expression of cheerful delight. He wanted to punish Moriarty, to rend his flesh and smash his body and ruin his face. He wanted to crack open Moriarty's skull and rip into the man's brain with his fangs. He wanted to destroy him utterly. But as he stood there in the dim shifting light, the full horror of what he had done coming to rest in his mind, he absolutely could not move. He had destroyed his love to save it from a worse fate, and now his bitterness paralyzed him. All he could do was look dully back at the smirking man across the top of John's head.

"My goodness, I didn't think you'd take it this hard," Moriarty said after a moment, letting out a hateful little giggle. "I can see that you're going to be no fun for a while." He paused, head cocked to one side, watching Sherlock.

Sherlock looked back, but still said nothing.

"Well then, I guess I'll leave you to get acquainted with your new thrall," Moriarty said with a shrug. "But I look forward to meeting you again, my dear." He raised one hand above his head and snapped his fingers, and the red light that had remained centered on John's chest through their entire exchange suddenly disappeared. Then Moriarty turned on his heel and strode briskly from the room, his designer shoes making sharp clicking noises against the tiles.

Sherlock did not watch him leave, turning instead to face John more fully. He remained silent, waiting until he heard the pool doors slam shut behind Moriarty.

"John, stand up," he said briskly, as soon as he was sure Moriarty had left. John did, jumping to his feet quickly, his eyes still locked on Sherlock's face. Unable to stop himself, Sherlock rushed to him and grabbed the Semtex vest, jerking the zipper down the front and tearing it off of John's shoulders. John staggered under the force of his yanking and made a little grunting sound, but otherwise said nothing.

Sherlock threw the explosives as far down the pool deck as he could, which, as a result of his supernatural strength, was quite a distance. Then he stood up, tilted his face to the ceiling, and took a deep breath, trying but failing to feel some relief in the gesture. He heard John take a step toward him, and turned his head.

"Are you alright?" he asked out of reflex, although he knew that there was no real point. Thralls always answered the same way.

"Yeah, fine," John said predictably, and Sherlock's heart broke a little bit at the way he sounded almost exactly like he always had.

"Good, then let's go," Sherlock answered quickly before turning and walking toward the exit. He did not look at John, but knew that John would be following him without question.

The cab ride home was silent.

Sherlock spent his time staring out the window, the familiar details of London flashing past his gaze unseen as his thoughts turned inward. He had done it, destroyed the mind of his best and only friend, the first being in hundreds of years for whom he had felt love. He knew that he did it to save John from a much worse fate, as he had no doubt that being Moriarty's thrall would be horrifyingly unpleasant, but that knowledge provided scant comfort. After all, John was only in that position in the first place because of his association with Sherlock. It was fundamentally Sherlock's fault this had happened.

As the cab got closer to Baker Street, Sherlock turned to glance at John. He was sitting back in his seat, but his body was taut with tension, and he was staring straight ahead. Sherlock regarded him for a moment before turning to look back out the window. He made a promise to himself then, that he would do everything in his power to make John happy, or as happy as he could be like this. He would make John comfortable and take care of him, and at the same time he would work harder than he ever had to discover whether there was any way to undo a Glamour, some possibility that he had not explored in his youth.

The cab pulled up in front of 221 Baker Street, and Sherlock paid the cabbie before climbing from the car. John preceded him into the building, and Sherlock could not stop himself from staring wistfully at John's back as he climbed the stairs. All of the secret dreams and wishes he might have had about possibly starting a relationship with John were gone now, destroyed in one brief instant by a clever madman. Sherlock sighed aloud.

John looked back at the sound, brow raised in concern, but Sherlock shook his head and waved it away. They entered the flat, and Sherlock immediately moved to the sofa, tossing his coat over the back of a chair on his way by, and flopped down, staring at the ceiling. John continued through the room and into the kitchen, and presently Sherlock could hear the familiar sounds of tea production. Which was a strangely independent act, for a thrall.

Sherlock frowned to himself. He had not asked John to make tea, but then he supposed that he had not asked him not too, either. Tea was such an ingrained habit of John's that it was not outside the realm of possibility that he would continue to do so automatically, despite the Glamour.

He shut his eyes, placed his palms together, and brought his fingers to his lips, reviewing in his mind everything he knew about Glamours. Despite his own investigations into the limits of his Talent, he found that there were still large gaps in his knowledge of the skill. He wondered whether the information could be found somewhere, whether it had been investigated by another of his kind in the past and recorded, or whether his own explorations represented the most thorough examination of the skill thus far. He ought to write his findings down, he knew, and might, once he had solved this puzzle and found a way to free John.

Dimly, Sherlock heard the sound of John coming back into the room. There was a gentle thump as a cup of tea was placed on the coffee table near his head, and then silence. He became aware that John was just standing beside the sofa, motionless, looking down at him. He opened his eyes.

"John, go sit down," he said, jolted again by the recollection that he would have to tell John to do such things now, that he would be _responsible_.

John looked at him for a beat, then gave a short tight nod and, unexpectedly, moved to sit on the sofa by his feet. Sherlock was so startled by this that he moved his feet out of the way automatically, watching John with a puzzled frown.

"Why are you sitting here?" Sherlock asked, unable to stop himself. John looked back at him silently for a moment, and then swallowed visibly.

"Vampire, really?" he asked, his voice strange and quiet, almost hesitant. Sherlock noted with confusion that he did not answer the direct question.

"Yes John, really," he answered with a sigh, rolling his eyes. Leave it to John to focus on that detail, even in thrall.

"Okay, right," John nodded, then looked around the flat for a moment before looking back at Sherlock. "But, I mean… really?"

"Yes. Now, let's drop the subject," Sherlock snapped, his thoughts yanked back out of his mind palace again by John's repeated questions.

"You know, I don't think I can just yet," John answered with a little smile. "You must admit, this is pretty crazy."

At John's words, Sherlock lowered his hands and sat bolt upright on the sofa, his eyes fixed on John. Who had just disobeyed a direct instruction. Two, in fact, if Sherlock counted his lack of answer to a direct question a moment ago. How had he done it?

In Sherlock's long experience, he had never, not a single time, seen a thrall disobey a direct instruction from their vampire. Typically they were fawningly eager to comply with commands, to a point that Sherlock had always found sickening. Was it possible that Sherlock had laid the Glamour incorrectly, that John was in fact not under compulsion? Sherlock felt a thrill in his stomach at the thought.

"John, I need a baby for an experiment. Go get me one," Sherlock said, holding eye contact with the doctor and deliberately imbuing his voice with a tone of stern command.

"You what? No!" John responded, looking back at Sherlock with an expression of baffled annoyance. "Are you… is that a joke? That's not funny at all, you git." Sherlock's mouth fell open.

He was aware of John's instinctive flinch backward, apparently in expectation of seeing Sherlock's fangs, although they were in fact sheathed at the moment, but he was too busy examining John's mind to care. He extended his senses, gently caressing John's mind with his own, examining the form of the Glamour he had placed. It was there, standing out clearly in John's orderly mind, tenuous threads of his aura wrapped around and through John's brain in Sherlock's signature shades of sunny lemon yellow shot through with swirls of bright meadow green – a color combination which had never failed to amuse Mycroft and Mummy, seeming as it did so perfectly opposed to Sherlock's temperament. Sherlock carefully examined the form and pattern of the traces of Glamour he could see. As far as he was able to discern, it was arranged correctly, each thread slotting neatly into those gaps in John's typical human mind that made Glamour possible. By all accounts, John should be his thrall, entirely bent to his will. And yet, here he was, saying no.

Sherlock's awareness snapped back to the world around him as he became aware that John was leaning forward, peering interestedly into his still-open mouth. As Sherlock watched, he shivered slightly and then fell still again. Sherlock snapped his jaw shut, teeth clicking together, and John jerked backward, his eyes rising to meet Sherlock's once again.

"I… sorry, it's still pretty weird, you know?" John said, grinning nervously. Sherlock just stared back at him.

"Touch your nose with your finger."

"How come?" John asked, but his finger rose up to touch the tip of his nose even as he asked. Sherlock watched, eyes narrowed.

"Do a somersault."

"Umm, what? Did you hit your head or something?" John crossed his arms and remained steadfastly on the sofa.

"Make me a cup of tea."

"I already did. It's sitting right there in front of you, getting cold." John's voice had definitely taken on an annoyed tone, now. Sherlock was fascinated.

"Go get the liver out of the fridge and bring it here."

"What is wrong with you? Are you trying to distract me or something? Because I have to tell you, no amount of you being an obnoxious berk is going to make me forget that you're a… a vampire. God, but that's bizarre. Now can we just talk, please?"

Sherlock resisted the urge to let his mouth drop open again. So, the situation, apparently, was that John was under a Glamour, laid perfectly by an expert, and was completely unaffected by it. He seemed to be behaving exactly as he always did, up to and including calling Sherlock names and getting exasperated with his odd behavior.

What could possibly account for this? Sherlock's mind spun frantically to identify an explanation, to find some previously overlooked variable that might make such a reaction possible. This was completely unheard of! Never, ever, in all of his research or investigations, in stories told by others or passed down through history, had he ever heard of a human who possessed any kind of immunity to Glamour. The only explanation he could think of was that John had some kind of anomaly in his brain that protected him from the compulsion. He would probably have to get MRI scans in order to determine what that might be. With their lifestyle, it should not be too hard to convince John to get an MRI, should it?

Again, he pulled his awareness back to the immediate situation, to find John leaning away from him on the sofa, his expression almost… fearful. John's behavior confused him, until he realized his eyes must be glowing again. And then he was suddenly overcome with the need to comfort John, to bring back that hesitant curiosity that John had been displaying moments before. If there was some way that he could stop John from leaving, now that he knew what Sherlock really was, Sherlock intended to find it.

"Sorry. It happens when I get… agitated," Sherlock said, breaking the silence. John jumped a little bit when he spoke, and his expression did not change.

"Oh, right. Sorry, never mind then. We don't have to talk about it, I guess," John answered quickly, still leaning back.

"No, that's quite alright. I was just thinking of something else. You have questions, go ahead and ask."

"Okay, yeah," John said, and then fell silent, staring at Sherlock. Sherlock waited, but the silence just kept stretching out as John looked at him, blinking occasionally while different emotions chased each other across his face. Finally, Sherlock blew out a loud breath and rolled his eyes.

"Answer number one: I cannot read minds, so you're going to have to ask your questions out loud."

John blinked again and then giggled, and just like that the tension was broken.

"So, your eyes glow when you're 'agitated'. How is it that I've never noticed before now? I've seen you agitated plenty of times."

"I can control the reaction, with effort. I just have to concentrate. I've gotten very good at it over the years, in order to blend in with humans."

"Right," John nodded. "That makes sense, I guess, although you never exactly seemed like a paragon of self-control to me." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Umm, so how old are you then?"

"I was born in 1795."

John jerked his head back and looked carefully into Sherlock's face at this, his eyes searching as if trying to see the truth of his years in Sherlock's countenance. Sherlock looked back calmly, drinking in the sight of John's fascination, his excited curiosity. He had feared he would never see it again, and now he could not get enough.

"My God, Sherlock, that's bloody amazing!" John said finally, apparently satisfied by what he saw.

"Eh," Sherlock shrugged in response. "It gets boring after a while, actually. It's been quite an effort to keep myself entertained."

"Hah, right, I bet," John laughed. He fell silent for a moment, and then his brow furrowed. "So, what about Mycroft? Is he, I don't know, some distant descendent or something? Or is he a… vampire, too?"

Mycroft would certainly not appreciate his secret being disclosed to a human, especially an unpredictable, evidently Glamour-resistant one such as John. Sherlock smirked.

"He's a vampire too. We share the same Maker, which is why we refer to ourselves as 'brothers', and he was made before I was, which is why he believes he has the right to be a bossy, interfering prat."

"Maker?"

"The vampire who turned me."

"Okay, so vampires are made then?" At Sherlock's impatient huff, John added, "I mean, not born that way or anything."

"No, we are made."

"Can you tell me about the process? It doesn't seem possible, medically speaking."

"I don't really remember much from my own transformation, except that it was very painful, and I've never turned a human so I can't speak for that side of the process."

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's evasive non-answer, but did not push the issue. In fact, Sherlock had a very thorough knowledge of the steps involved in transforming a human to a vampire, but he preferred not to discuss it right then. Some of the details were quite disturbing, and he did not want to put John off.

"I guess the stories are mostly wrong, though," John continued. "I mean, I've seen you go outside during the day, and you have a reflection in the mirror."

Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Yes, shockingly most of the information in fictional vampire stories is false."

"Do you drink blood?"

Sherlock kept his face smooth. Finally, _the_ question. The one he had been expecting since he invited John to ask freely. He was slightly worried about this part of the conversation, because he had no idea how John would react.

"Yes."

John swallowed visibly at the blunt response, but did not drop his eyes. "Right. But you still eat food, too, don't you? I mean, human food. I've seen you do it."

"Yes, we do. Vampires can eat human food, and indeed quite enjoy it. You've seen Mycroft eat cake." John giggled at this, looking a little scandalized at Sherlock mocking the elder vampire. "It is even fairly sustaining, although ultimately not enough for us. We also need to consume a certain quantity of human blood, for… medicinal purposes." John's mouth quirked at Sherlock's wording. "And, although some of my contemporaries would argue this point, we don't really need much blood to survive."

"How much?" John's expression still appeared curious, rather than disgusted, so Sherlock took the risk of answering.

"I can function comfortably on a few swallows per month."

"Hmmm," John responded. He sat back, breaking eye contact with Sherlock and resting against the back of the sofa. Sherlock braced himself for the question he knew was coming. "Where do you get it, the human blood?" John's voice was still calm, steady, but Sherlock could see tension in the line of his shoulders.

"Prostitutes."

John's head whipped back around and he stared at Sherlock incredulously. "What?"

"Well, it makes sense, doesn't it?" Sherlock asked, feeling unexpectedly discomfited by John's expression. "I mean, where else would I get blood?"

"God, I don't know. I was wondering if you lifted it from the morgue or something. Prostitutes, honestly?"

"I experimented with ingesting extracted blood very early in my life as a vampire," Sherlock said, unconsciously wrinkling his nose at the memory. "It is neither pleasant nor effective, much like drinking from a human who is already dead. As far as I can determine, the blood is only effectively nourishing when it is transmitted directly from a living human to the vampire."

Sherlock noticed that John's face had gone a bit funny by the end of this speech, but he did not comment. Sherlock waited for a moment, trying not to fidget in the face of John's silence, and then continued.

"I prefer not to hurt people when I need to eat, and I will not use my Talents to take advantage of them. Prostitutes are easiest, because I can easily and safely get in close to the neck, and cover up the actual extraction of blood with a dark hickey." John blinked suddenly at this, and a strange expression passed across his face too quickly for Sherlock to identify. "As I said before, I don't need much blood. I don't take enough for them to notice the loss. Frankly, I find the whole process tedious and objectionable, but it is necessary. I have simply found the easiest and most efficient way to address the need."

John was silent for a few more moments as he digested this information.

"So, okay then, does that mean you've been going to prostitutes every month the entire time we've known each other?"

"I… yes?" Sherlock was confused. Of everything he just said, this was the detail John was focusing on?

"I can't believe I never noticed!" Now John seemed upset.

"I leave the flat without you fairly often, John. Especially at night. Why would you have noticed?"

"I don't know," John said, scrubbing a hand across his face and up into his hair. "It's just weird, you know, thinking of you going out and picking up random whores while we've been flatmates."

"Actually, I have a regular. I've been going to him for quite a while, since well before we met. I prefer that arrangement, because I always know where to find him and that he's going to be clean. Drugs in the blood are the biggest risk, you know, with prostitutes."

John barked out a short, humorless laugh and dropped his head back on the sofa cushion behind him. "You've been out banging some guy once a month this whole time?" He was genuinely angry now, and the tone of his voice caused something to pull tight in Sherlock's chest.

"What? No!" Sherlock said hurriedly. He was gratified to see John's hand fall away from his face, and quickly continued. "I don't sleep with him, John. I just drink, pay him, and leave. I told him I have a neck fetish."

John sucked in a sharp breath at this comment, and then let out a surprised giggle. Sherlock felt relieved to see his posture relax a bit. They sat in silence for a moment, each caught up in his own thoughts, until John leaned forward again and turned to face Sherlock.

"Can I see them?"

Sherlock blinked. "What?" he asked, although he understood John perfectly.

"Your… you know, your fangs. Can I see them?"

"Why do you want to?" Sherlock stifled his body's unexpected reaction to John's request, which involved a sudden rush of heat to his groin and an intense desire to give John an extremely up-close view.

"I'm not really sure," John answered, looking steadily back at Sherlock, not seeming to notice his response to the question. "I'm just interested."

Now this Sherlock had not expected. He had been gratified that John was not running from the flat, screaming about nightmare monsters, and was happy to answer his questions. He was delighted to think that he had not lost his best friend, either to his Glamour or to fear of the unknown. He was relieved that John was curious enough to ask him questions. But he had never expected John to be so comfortable with what he was that he would make such a request. Maybe the Glamour was affecting him in a more subtle way? The thought immediately dampened Sherlock's arousal, and he peered curiously at John.

"I have to say, John, I'm really surprised at how calmly you're handling all of this," Sherlock said, carefully watching John's reaction. John shrugged at that, but Sherlock saw the tension coming back into his muscles and his face took on a tight scowl.

"I was in Moriarty's… company… for quite a while," John said, and for the first time that evening Sherlock considered the fact that his friend, his _John_ was in the clutches of a young psychopath vampire unsupervised for some period of time tonight. God, the things he could have _done! _Sherlock had to suppress an urge to grab onto John and pull him to his chest in a fierce hug. "He was very convincing," John continued, giving a little snort at his own understatement.

"What did he do?" Sherlock whispered, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"Nothing too bad, actually, once I got over the shock. He did that disappearing thing a few times, I think just to make sure I believed him. Scared the shit out of me, the first time. He popped up right next to my ear." John shook his head, looking tired. "Told me about you, too. I didn't believe him at first. I mean, he was so clearly insane. But he was obviously telling the truth about himself, no doubt about that. He kind of planted the idea about you, and I couldn't help but think about it."

"Understandable," Sherlock murmured, but John did not look at him, just kept speaking, his soft voice floating out into the silence of the flat.

"The longer I thought about it, the more sense it made, you know? You have to admit, you're pretty unusual. The whole vampire thing seemed like a reasonable explanation, once I sort of grasped that vampires were really real. By the time I heard you admit it, I had already accepted that it might be the truth."

John turned to face Sherlock on the sofa again. His expression was very serious, very intense, and Sherlock found himself wanting to look away, to deflect the moment somehow. He resisted the urge, just kept silent and looked back into John's eyes.

"And I thought about it, about what it meant if you had been a vampire this entire time but never told me, or showed me, or done anything… you know, weird… to me. You could have, easily, if you were even a fraction as powerful as Moriarty." He held up a placating hand at the expression on Sherlock's face at this statement. "Yes, I know, you're at least as powerful, right? And so I decided that even if you were a vampire, I was obviously still safe with you. I could still trust you. I do still trust you."

A warm sensation burst in Sherlock's chest at John's words. He opened his mouth to respond, and found he could not think of a single thing to say. He just swallowed instead, still staring intently back at John.

The moment stretched out, seconds ticking by as Sherlock stared into John's eyes, trying and failing to find the words he wanted to speak, to tell John exactly how he felt. And then John cleared his throat and looked away, and the moment cracked like glass.

"So, to answer your other question, I guess he didn't really do anything that awful to me. It could have been worse, I'm sure. Whatever that was he did after you got there was much scarier."

"The Repulsion," Sherlock said. "Yes, I imagine it was."

"Repulsion, it's called? What the hell is it?" John asked, curious again.

"A Talent some vampires have. The ability to generate and project a mental field that humans experience as a sensation of intense terror. It is effective in warding humans away from certain objects or areas. Many vampires who have that particular Talent use it to keep themselves safe when they are sleeping or hiding." Sherlock's voice slipped unconsciously into lecture mode as he spoke.

"Yep, that sounds about right. Intense terror. Oh yes."

"The one Moriarty placed around you was quite powerful. You may feel adverse effects for some time to come. I would not be surprised if you have nightmares."

John laughed softly. "Right, thanks for the heads up." He paused for a moment. "I was a little out of it, but I heard some of your conversation with Moriarty about talents. Do all vampires have them?"

"As far as I know."

"So, can you do that Repulsion thing too?"

"No," Sherlock answered, going into lecture mode again. John continued to watch him intently, apparently hanging on every word. "There are a variety of Talents that vampires may develop. Most only ever perfect one, but more powerful vampires can develop more. They differ between vampires, and are the result of natural aptitude and skill revealed after the transformation. We do not get to select which Talents we will gain."

"How many Talents do you have, then?" John asked with a little cheeky smile.

"Three."

"Is that a lot?"

"I've only known two other vampires with so many. And Moriarty just became the third."

"Of course you'd be amazing as a vampire too," John murmured almost to himself, shaking his head, and Sherlock felt another bloom of that warm sensation in his heart. Then John looked back up at him with an expectant expression on his face. "Going to tell me what they are, then?"

Sherlock paused, considering John's request; he had not actually intended to go into it. In particular, he did not want to discuss Glamour. But now, after John's declaration earlier, he felt compelled to show John that he trusted him as well.

"I have a Talent for Music and Languages, which means that I can duplicate a piece of music or a foreign language after hearing it only once. Also, I can play nearly any instrument with very little effort."

"If that's the case, then why do you torture your poor violin like that?" John asked, giving Sherlock a mock-glare, the effect of which was spoiled by the grin that kept trying to form on his lips. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but found himself grinning back.

"I also have a Talent called Farsight. When I try, I can 'see' familiar objects in my mind, as well as a little bit of the space around them. If I can see enough, I can locate them."

"Handy," John said, "although, I don't know, that doesn't seem especially useful in the day to day, does it? I suppose if you had a car you would always be able to find your keys."

Sherlock fixed John with a level look. "In our line of work, John, it can come in extremely handy. I have never yet had cause to use it, but it's worth remembering that you count as an 'object' as far as this Talent is concerned."

John blinked. "So you could find me if I was kidnapped?" He looked thoughtful. "That is useful, isn't it? Next time Mycroft wants to have a little chat, you'll know where to go."

"Of course, it only works if I know you've been kidnapped, which is why I didn't use it tonight."

"Of course."

There was a pause, during which Sherlock grappled with the uncomfortable and unfamiliar need to apologize for failing to save John sooner, and John sat quietly with a considering look on his face.

"So, what's the third one then?"

"I… I'd rather not go into it." As he spoke, without thinking, Sherlock extended his senses and looked at the traces of Glamour still visible in John's mind. Still there, just the same as before. He let a tendril of his aura twist around John and gently tweaked the threads of the Glamour. John nearly jumped off the sofa.

"Jesus! Is that… did you do that? What the hell is that?" He asked, sounding slightly breathless.

"I guess so. I don't know what happened," Sherlock answered almost absently. His entire attention was focused on the Glamour, now. That should not have happened, if the Glamour was not affecting John at all. He reached out with his aura and tweaked it again, more deliberately this time.

John's whole body twitched. He shook his head, hard, and turned to stare at Sherlock. "What are you doing?"

"That's odd. I'm trying to figure it out. What does it feel like, John?" Sherlock asked. His focus was on the Glamour, but he still noticed that John's face flushed a bright red at the question.

"Um… it's weird. I get a shiver down my spine, and my skin feels tighter. It's almost like a sudden feeling of anticipation, but… more pleasant."

"Hmm," Sherlock responded, and did it again. John shivered visibly, and a small grunt escaped his mouth.

"You should stop that now," John said, and Sherlock was startled enough by the steel in his voice to pull his focus away from the Glamour and back to John.

"Right, sorry," he blinked, taking in John's flushed face and noticeably elevated respiration. Interesting.

"Thanks." He paused. "That actually reminded me a little bit of whatever you did back at the pool. The last thing, before Moriarty left," John added absently, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. Jolted, Sherlock sat up straighter and looked at John.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well, I don't know, do I? I'm not sure what you did. I just remember kneeling there, still trying to shake off all the terrible memories that the other thing, the Repulsion, had brought out, and then all of a sudden I just felt this really nice feeling pouring over me, and I could tell it was coming from you. It really helped, actually. Made me forget every bad thing that had happened, for a moment," John reported this information as if it were no big deal, calmly looking at Sherlock, hands resting gently and loosely in his lap.

Sherlock was flabbergasted. If the Glamour was not affecting John, then he should not have felt it like that, felt the smothering emotional effect of the Glamour being applied. He should not be able to feel it now, when Sherlock touched it with his aura. But clearly he had felt it both times, and reported it in much the same way that Sherlock's previous thralls had done when he had asked them, back when he was still working to understand his Talent.

"What?" John asked in an annoyed tone, and Sherlock realized that he was staring at John with his mouth open again.

Sherlock had no idea what to say. He wanted, _needed,_ to explore the Glamour further, to understand what exactly he had done to John. But John was clearly not okay with it, and had directly asked him to stop. He contemplated his choices: he could wait and try to examine the Glamour when John was distracted or asleep to see what he could figure out; or, he could just tell John what happened, confess, and ask John to allow him to try to help.

Either choice might end badly. He did not want to break John's trust now, which might happen if he continued investigating this without permission, but he did not want John to hate him for what he had done, or tried to do, at the pool, either.

He looked into John's eyes, his open, honest face, and swallowed. He would tell him the truth, then, and hope John could accept it and still not hate him.

"My third Talent is Glamour," he said finally, watching John closely.

"Oh, okay. What does that mean?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Glamour is a difficult Talent to master, and very few of us can do it. It is… when applied to a human mind, Glamour causes a compulsion to obey the vampire that cast it, to do whatever they ask without question, to serve and worship them." John was watching Sherlock, rapt, but at these words an expression of disgust crossed his face. Sherlock continued hurriedly. "I know, and it's a Talent that I haven't used in a very long time. I did some things in my youth that I am not proud of, John. Things I regret to this day. But the fact remains, that Glamour is my third Talent."

"Thank you for telling me," John said gently, his expression softened following Sherlock's explanation.

"There's more." Sherlock hesitated, but John did not comment, still watching him carefully. "You experienced two of Moriarty's Talents firsthand. The invisibility, which we call Veiling, and the Repulsion. Moriarty's third Talent, it turns out, is also Glamour.

"When a Glamour is applied, John, it is permanent. There is no way to remove one without killing the human. Once they have been Glamoured, they will be essentially a slave to the vampire that cast the Glamour for the rest of their lives. And the only way to stop a vampire who is able from applying a Glamour is to kill the human first. Or, to make sure there is already another Glamour in place, as only one can ever be applied."

John's eyes narrowed at the end of the explanation, and Sherlock felt his breath turn to ice in his lungs. John was an intelligent man, despite Sherlock's frequent remarks to the contrary, and he had all the clues he needed now to figure out where Sherlock was going with this. But he did not speak, did not interrupt, and his eyes remained fixed on Sherlock's. So Sherlock continued with his explanation.

"At the pool, Moriarty attempted to show me his third Talent. He tried to Glamour you." John closed his eyes and shuddered at this. "I could not allow that. But there were only two possible ways to stop him. I obviously chose not to kill you first, so…" he trailed off, unable to give voice to what he had done instead, even though he believed it to be the lesser of two evils.

John had no such qualms. "You Glamoured me?" His voice remained calm and even, which surprised Sherlock. He had almost been expecting hysterics of some kind, or at least anger. John did not usually hesitate to express his anger at Sherlock's behavior. But this time, he seemed disturbingly calm.

"Yes. I had to, you see that, don't you? I couldn't let Moriarty do it, and I certainly couldn't kill you. I had no other choice!" Sherlock was surprised to find that he was the one starting to sound hysterical. John's calm expression did not change during his frantic justifications.

"I see. But, didn't you say that I should be 'serving and worshipping' you right now, if that's the case? Because I have to tell you, that's not the urge I'm experiencing just at the moment."

Sherlock let out a high, breathy laugh at John's comment, which did not help him to sound less hysterical. "I know. It didn't work, but it did. You aren't acting any different, but the Glamour is very obviously in place. That's why you felt better at the pool, that's what happens when a Glamour is applied. I've been told in the past that it feels like being 'wrapped in love', whatever that means. And that's why you feel it when I do this." And Sherlock caressed the threads of the Glamour with his aura again.

"Jesus! Sherlock, you have to warn me before you do that!" John shouted, jumping at the sudden sensation.

"If it didn't work, you shouldn't be able to feel that. But if it did work, you shouldn't be able to tell me 'no' or act like yourself, which you can obviously still do. I've never heard of this before, never seen anything like it. I need to figure out what's happening, so that we can fix it."

John crossed his arms over his chest and stared silently at Sherlock. The expression on his face clearly said "a bit not good."

"Oh John, you must know that I regret it. I would never have done it if there had been another choice. But I thought it would be better with me than with Moriarty, and I hoped that with time I could find a way to safely remove it. I never wanted to hurt you."

John drew in a slow breath through his nose and gradually lowered his arms. "Okay, I know you wouldn't have done it without a good reason. I still trust you. I must be insane." He paused. "Wait, is that why you asked me to do all those strange things when we first got home?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "So you'll let me investigate?"

"Yeah, I suppose so. What do you want to do?"

"First, tell me exactly what you felt at the pool. How did it feel when the Glamour was applied?" Sherlock asked, his brain already sorting possibilities and additional lines of questioning as he waited for John to start providing him with information.

"Hmm," John's eyes turned toward the ceiling as he contemplated. "Like I said before, really nice. Actually, 'wrapped in love' is a pretty good description. I felt like I was… this sounds strange, but it was like I suddenly felt cherished, loved, but at the same time it was almost like an actual physical sensation. Like you had somehow made the emotion of love into a liquid and poured a bucket of it over me."

"Interesting. Anything else?"

"Well, like I said, it made me temporarily forget about all the negative thoughts from the Repulsion," John answered. He thought for a moment. "I think that's it. I can't remember noticing anything else."

Sherlock was excited. "That is different, then. The Glamour must not have worked correctly. If it had, you would also have experienced feelings of love toward me."

"What?" John asked, his gaze snapping back to Sherlock.

"That's how a Glamour works," Sherlock explained. "It induces an emotion of all-consuming love in the thrall –excuse me, human – that it affects. As a result, they are compelled to do anything to make the vampire happy. Obviously, that part of the Glamour did not affect you, which is why you have no trouble telling me 'no'."

"Oh," John breathed out, his eyes wide, staring into the space beyond Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock frowned. He knew that expression; it was the one he wore when he had a revelation about a case.

After a moment, John's eyes sought out Sherlock's again, and a small smile rose on John's mouth.

"Well, I think I figured out why it didn't work," John said. It was the last thing Sherlock was expecting to hear, and he gaped at John incredulously.

"Please, John, how could you possibly have done? You didn't even know what Glamour was until a few minutes ago. I studied it for years, and I still don't have a good theory. We'll need to investigate all aspects of this, because as far as I can see the Glamour is laid correctly, but it affected you differently than it should have. There's no way you could have just 'figured it out'."

John let him speak without interrupting, but the little smile on his face never faltered. Once Sherlock wound down, he continued. "It is funny, isn't it, that you don't know but I do? Seems pretty obvious to me, really. Would you like me to explain it to you?"

"Oh, yes, please, impress me with your great wisdom," Sherlock was confused, and the smile on John's face was making him feel insecure. As usual, he retreated to rudeness and sarcasm to cover the feelings.

John did not flinch, and his smile deepened. "The Glamour should have made me feel an intense love for you, right?" Sherlock nodded, interested in John's explanation almost despite himself. "But I didn't mention anything about it when you asked me what it felt like." Another nod. "Well, it's possible that the Glamour worked exactly like it should, and did cause that feeling, and I just didn't notice."

"Actually, I don't think that's possible, John. It generates the most powerful feeling of love a human can experience, I'm told." Sherlock was, thus far, not impressed with John's explanation.

"And the reason I didn't notice," John continued, undeterred, "is because I've been that deeply in love with you for months, so to me it didn't feel any different."


	3. The Third Revelation

The explicit part of the story begins in this chapter. If you aren't interested in reading it, stop after the kiss.

* * *

"I… you… what?" Sherlock was babbling, but he could not seem to stop himself. John had… John said that… but could that protect him from…? On the heels of John's confession, Sherlock's brain was flying off in a hundred different directions at once. He felt suddenly warm through his whole body, and his skin was tingling. He leapt up from the sofa and started pacing back and forth across the sitting room.

_John loves me? John loves me! How did I never notice? This is amazing! Does it explain why the Glamour didn't work? He already loved me and was still able to retain his sense of himself, so the Glamour didn't destroy him? I've never tried to Glamour someone who was in love with me. No one has even been in love with me before. I can't believe John loves me back! Has any vampire ever tried to Glamour someone who loves them? Doubtful, no one wants to ruin their beloved's mind. This is incredible!_

He became aware that John was standing up in front of the sofa, watching him pace with a fearful expression. Why was John afraid? Were his eyes glowing again? Possibly, but John knew the cause of that now and should not still be… oh. Oh yes, of course.

Sherlock spun on his heel once more and marched purposely over to John. "John, that's brilliant! You're brilliant!" he announced as he walked to him. A sunny smile broke out on John's face, and Sherlock felt his heart swell again.

When he reached him, Sherlock attempted to grasp John's hands, but his reach was clumsy in his haste and he ended up grabbing hold of John's wrists instead. He was opening his mouth to continue, to tell him that he loved him back, to finally admit this feeling now that he was confronted with the amazing revelation that it was reciprocated, when he saw John grimace and felt him pull his right wrist out of Sherlock's grasp.

"What's wrong with your wrist?" came out of his mouth, instead of the grand pronouncement of love that he had intended.

"It's nothing, just sore from earlier," John answered, squeezing his right wrist with his left hand through the fabric of his jumper and turning slightly away.

A horrible suspicion rose in Sherlock's mind. "Let me see it," he demanded.

"Look, it's fine, don't worry about it," John responded, not releasing his wrist.

Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock grabbed both of John's hands and brought them up to his face. He closed his eyes and sniffed long and deep, extending his senses at the same time and dragging them along John's wrist… and… there! A sickeningly familiar not-quite-smell of sulfur and sweet rot clung to John's right wrist, faint through the material of the jumper but still distinct. Ignoring John's angry protests, Sherlock pried his other hand off and pulled up the jumper sleeve.

Two distinct puncture wounds were revealed beneath the fabric, perfectly placed in the delicate tracing of veins visible beneath the tender skin of John's wrist.

At the sight, Sherlock's fangs once again punched down into his mouth and he knew his eyes must be glowing.

"John," he said carefully, his voice deep and gravelly with anger, "when I asked you what Moriarty did to you before I arrived, you did not tell me that he drank from you. Why not?"

"I…," John swallowed audibly, "I was afraid you would get upset."

"You were correct." Sherlock did not release John's wrist. His eyes remained locked on the ground, his hand clenched tightly around John's arm. He stood perfectly still, holding himself in check by will alone. He felt almost overwhelmed, filled with so many conflicting urges and desires that he did not know what to do with them all.

He wanted to find Moriarty and rip him limb from limb for having the audacity, the gall to drink from _his_ John. He wanted to fall on John and smother him in his scent, his aura, to lick his skin and breathe his air and taste his blood, until the lingering traces of Moriarty's violation were completely obliterated. He wanted to yell and rage at John for trying to hide this from him. He wanted to flee the unfamiliar vortex of emotions flooding him, dart out of the building and find solitude in the night. He wanted to squeeze John to his chest and stroke his hair and protect him and keep him safe from all threats.

"It's not bad, honestly. I would have told you if he had really hurt me. He just did it to prove that he was really a vampire when I didn't believe him. I don't think he even took any blood, just bit me and then showed me his bloody teeth." John was almost stammering in his haste to explain, but he made no attempt to free his arm from Sherlock's grasp.

Sherlock closed his eyes, paralyzed by the force of his clashing desires. He dropped his head down until his forehead was pressed against John's bared forearm and drew in a slow breath. The action caused his senses to fill with the faint traces of Moriarty's violation, and instantly one specific desire rose to the top, a desire to claim, to _take,_ the sudden physical need sweeping through him and taking him by surprise.

Sherlock dropped John's arm and straightened up, turning to face John, still standing in front of the sofa. John stayed where he was, watching Sherlock carefully, his expression filled with concern. Concern, for Sherlock. After the night he had, John was concerned for _him._ Standing there with puncture wounds in his wrist and the smell of chlorine still clinging to him from the pool, John was worried about how _Sherlock_ was feeling.

Overwhelmingly strong love for John immediately filled him, the force of it subsuming his need to claim John physically, staggering him with its power. He gently brought his hands up and cupped John's face in his palms, drinking in the sight of John's eyes widening in surprise and anticipation.

"John Watson, you wonderful idiot. In two hundred years I have never loved anyone, never even liked most people, and the feeling has always been mutual. And then you show up, and you aren't scared away, and you just _care_ so much." He paused, staring into John's eyes as John gazed back at him, lips parted and eyes wide. "John, I love you. I am in love with you."

John gasped, eyes opening even wider, and then his knees sagged and Sherlock had to drop his hands and wrap one long arm around John's shoulders to hold him upright. Sherlock walked him backward and bent, placing John gently on the sofa. He dropped to his knees in front of John and pushed his face into his jumper-clad stomach. Slowly, he felt John's hands creep around his head until his fingers were buried in Sherlock's hair.

After a timeless time he looked up to find John looking back down at him with a wondering expression on his face. He smiled, and John smiled back, still looking dazed. John brought his hand forward and pushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Again his wrist floated past Sherlock's face, carrying with it that rotten almost-scent of Moriarty's aura, and Sherlock's need to claim what was his pulsed strongly in him again.

John drew in a sharp breath as the expression on Sherlock's face morphed into something dark and hungry. Sherlock rose and climbed forward onto John's lap, coming to rest hovering above him with his knees on either side of John's thighs. He brought his face down until his lips were just above John's.

"I hate the thought of him touching you, John. I can't stand it. You are mine. _Mine, _John. No one gets to touch you but _me_." With this, Sherlock dropped his head and started to nuzzle into John's neck and jaw, moving his head around and deliberately breathing hot air onto John's ear.

"Oh God, Sherlock," John gasped out, twisting his head to allow Sherlock better access.

"Mine," Sherlock hissed again, directly into John's ear. At the same time, he reached out with his aura and deliberately tweaked the strands of Glamour he could feel in John's mind. The result was electric. John bucked beneath him, bringing his groin up into contact with Sherlock's and causing a delicious pressure. John threw back his head, pressing back into the sofa cushion, and moaned loudly.

"Fuck, oh fuck," John ground out, biting his lip and squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Sherlock let his tongue trace a line along the shell of John's ear and then blew across it gently, eliciting a shiver from John.

"You are mine, aren't you John?" John nodded frantically, and Sherlock grinned against the side of his head, fangs curving down over his lower lip. "Say it."

"I'm… I'm yours. God, Sherlock, I've been yours for ages, you just never noticed."

"Yes, mine. Mmm, yes," Sherlock murmured against the skin of John's neck. Then he straightened up, settling back on John's thighs. He grasped John's wrist and brought it up to his mouth.

Pushing back the sleeve of John's jumper, Sherlock extended his tongue and licked the puncture wounds on John's wrist. John sucked in a breath as Sherlock continued, slowly and thoroughly lapping across the little injuries and the skin surrounding them, at the same time allowing his aura to intensify and wrap around John. By the time he was done, all hints of Moriarty had been erased from John's skin, with the exception of the puncture wounds themselves. Only time would erase those.

His immediate task complete, Sherlock released John's wrist and let his hand fall to his lap. John was leaning back on the sofa, staring up at Sherlock with an expression caught in a place halfway between tenderness and desire. His pupils were dilated, his breathing deep and fast, his heart rate elevated. Sherlock could actually hear his heartbeat, the blood pulsing through his veins audible as a dull rhythmic roar to Sherlock's enhanced senses. The urge to take John, to claim him, to taste every part of him, skin and sweat and blood, rose up in Sherlock. Overcome with arousal, eyes glowing a vivid red, he opened his mouth and bared his fangs.

John's breathing quickened, and his pupils dilated further. Slowly, cautiously, he brought a hand up and reached out, tracing one of Sherlock's fangs with the tip of a finger. Sherlock remained still, fighting back the desire to fall on John and just consume him, allowing John to explore.

John leaned forward, bringing his face closer to Sherlock's, and examined his fangs closely, still touching with his finger as well. Then he raised his gaze to Sherlock and his lips curved in a smile.

"May I kiss you?" John asked, his warm breath puffing softly against Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock closed his mouth and licked his lips before answering, "Oh God yes."

John cupped Sherlock's jaw in one hand and leaned up, bringing their lips together. The kiss was soft and gentle and beautiful, the tender caress of warm lips, the comforting smells of tea and wool and gunpowder and _John_ filling Sherlock's senses. He heard himself let out a soft high grunt as he pressed his lips more firmly against John's, wanting more, wanting the delightful smell and taste of John to fill him completely.

John moaned against Sherlock's mouth, and suddenly he needed more. Tentatively, he let his tongue slip out and gently dragged it across John's bottom lip. Immediately John's lips parted for him, and Sherlock pushed his tongue into the warm wet space of John's mouth.

The feeling was incredible, hot and slick, and the sensation of John's tongue caressing his was immediately the most sensuous thing Sherlock had ever experienced in his whole long life. He had, of course, had sex before, although not in many years. Early in his existence, when everything was still new and worth exploring, he had indulged in every vice he could think of, just because he could, up to and including all manner of sexual acts. However, it was obvious to him now that the addition of love made a significant difference to these acts of pleasure, elevating the simple mechanism of physical gratification to an act of reverent devotion. Sherlock wanted nothing more than to stay there, tasting John's mouth, reveling in the intense sensation of his tongue caressing and twisting around John's, for the rest of the night.

But then John leaned further up, pushing himself harder against Sherlock's mouth, thrusting his tongue forward between Sherlock's lips, and all rational thought fled.

John's hands came up and gripped hard in Sherlock's hair at the same time that John's tongue invaded his mouth, twisting around his. He felt the edge of John's tongue scrape the side of one of his fangs, and the resulting jolt of pleasure and arousal that washed through him obliterated his self-control.

Unthinking, he brought his arms up and wrapped them around John's shoulders, crushing John to him and sucking hard on John's tongue. At the same time he slid down John's legs until his groin was flush with the other man's and bucked against him, tightening his thighs around John's hips and grinding his erection against the equally prominent bulge beneath him. John whimpered into his mouth and writhed beneath him, thrusting up into Sherlock and twisting his hand tighter in Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock ground down onto John over and over, still sucking on his tongue, running his hands hard over every part of John that he could reach. He wanted to wrap himself around John, bathe him in his smell and taste until John forgot about everything else in the world but him. He moaned deeply around John's tongue as he bucked on his lap.

He allowed his aura to caress John's mind, deliberately trying to gently stimulate the threads of the Glamour, a maneuver he had never before attempted. He carefully stroked the yellow and green tendrils winding through John's brain even as he forcefully pressed himself against John's physical body, and was rewarded with a series of shuddering thrusts from the man below him. John broke away from Sherlock's mouth and threw his head back, moaning loudly and panting hard, his throat long and pale in the dim lighting. Sherlock's mouth watered at the sight, and before he knew what he was doing he brought his face down, opening his mouth and pressing his teeth against John's neck.

Suddenly becoming aware of himself, Sherlock froze for a beat and then jumped backwards off of John's lap. He stood, fighting to regain self-control, and watched as John came back to his senses, blinking and looking around. His eyes fell on Sherlock and he gave a slow, sleepy smile.

"God, that was… what's wrong?" he asked, becoming visibly concerned as he took in Sherlock's expression.

"John, I don't think I can do this," Sherlock managed to say, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. John's face fell, his expression crumpling into sadness at Sherlock's words.

"Oh God, Sherlock, I'm sorry. Was I going too fast? I'll stop, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to push you too hard, I know this isn't something you usually do. We don't have to… I can stop…," John babbled quickly, flushing a deep red. He stood and took a step toward Sherlock, who took a quick step backward. John froze.

"No, John, stop. It's not that. I want to, as well. God, how I want to," Sherlock said, his voice deeper than usual in his arousal. John visibly relaxed at Sherlock's words.

"Then why?"

"I'm afraid I won't be able to… you're just so _tempting_. I'm not sure I can control myself."

"I don't want you to control yourself, Sherlock," John said, his voice deep and slow, looking directly into Sherlock's eyes. "I've wanted this for so bloody long, you have no idea. I don't want self-control, and you don't have to be careful. I want you to take me."

Sherlock had to stiffen his legs to stop his knees from going weak at John's words, and another wave of desire rocked him.

"John, fuck yes, I want that, I want to. But I… God, I want to taste you. I can hear your blood, smell it, feel it pulsing beneath my fingers when I touch you. I want to taste it, and I don't know if I can stop myself." Sherlock looked helplessly at John as he spoke, the desire he felt warring with his fear of hurting John, of finally scaring him off.

John's eyes widened as Sherlock spoke, but he did not look away. The silence stretched out, punctuated with John's ragged, panting breaths, as the two men locked eyes. Then John straightened his spine, lifted his chin, and gave a tiny little nod.

"I know you won't hurt me. I trust you, Sherlock."

"You shouldn't."

"Maybe not," John said with a smile, "but I do."

"John, you don't understand what it's like. I'm trying, but I don't know if I can resist. I don't even trust myself. We can't do this."

"No, Sherlock, _you_ don't understand," John continued, his expression unchanged. "I'm saying it's fine. You said you don't need to take much, right? Go ahead and bite me. Drink my blood."

"Christ, John," Sherlock breathed. Hearing those words come out of John's mouth sent a bolt of desire slamming through him, making his cock pulse and his fangs ache. "You have no idea what you're saying."

"Well, if you think I'm going to let you go to a prostitute after this, you're insane," John answered, his smile widening. "I want you. I want every crazy bizarre infuriating part of you, even this part. If you have to have human blood, you can have mine. I want you to. Drink from me." And with that, John tipped his head back and to the side, baring his throat to Sherlock.

"Oh fuck." The tenuous threads of Sherlock's self-control snapped at the sight, and he took three large steps forward until he was pressed against John's compact form. He buried his face in John's neck, his sacrifice, and drew in a long breath, reveling in the delicious smell of his skin. Then he wrapped his arms around John, dropping his hands to grab John's arse, and with minimal effort lifted the shorter man up completely off the ground. Startled, John instinctively wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist as he was hoisted into the air.

"So, stronger than us humans too, huh?" John said, laughing giddily as Sherlock carried him through the flat. Sherlock, pushed beyond the capacity for speech by the force of his need to feast on every part of John, did not reply. He just clutched John tighter to him and moved quickly to his bedroom.

Sherlock dropped John roughly onto the bed and fell on top of him, crashing their lips together in a bruising kiss. John responded eagerly, arching up against Sherlock's body and sucking hard on his tongue, moaning into his mouth. He brought his hands up and threaded one through Sherlock's hair, grabbing a handful and tugging, and dropped the other down to grip his arse. Sherlock let out a sound suspiciously like a growl and lowered his head to lick and suck at John's neck, pulling the collar of his jumper out of the way to get access to more flesh.

Rearing back, Sherlock dragged John up into a sitting position and jerked the damned thick wooly jumper up over his head, pulling off his shirt along with it and casting them both to the ground. John's hands came up to start working on the buttons of Sherlock's shirt, but Sherlock batted them away and simply tore the shirt open, buttons flying off in all directions.

"Sherlock, oh God," John gasped out, his eyes roaming Sherlock's bared skin. "You're so fucking gorgeous." His hands traced the contours of Sherlock's chest, fingers tickling in a gentle touch. He brought his thumbs down, dragging them across Sherlock's nipples, and the detective threw back his head and groaned, dropping down onto John's rigid erection beneath him and grinding. With a hiss, John twisted his fingers and pinched Sherlock's nipples hard, pulling another deep groan from the taller man.

Sherlock came back to himself enough to push John back down onto the bed. He hovered over him, drinking in the sight of John spread out beneath him. In the soft light of the bedside lamp John's skin glowed a warm honey tone against the duvet, the delicious smoothness of it interrupted here and there by pink and white scars, lines and puckers and welts marring the beautiful skin. Sherlock fell upon the body beneath him and began tracing over John's scars with his teeth and tongue, worshipping every mark as an indication of this incredible man's bravery, pouring out his love and desire and gratitude through his actions so that he would not have to try to find the words to say it out loud. Below him John writhed, moaning as Sherlock's lips and tongue and teeth danced across sensitive flesh and deadened nerves, the contrasting sensations making him buck with pleasure.

Sherlock licked and kissed and nipped his way down the length of John's chest and stomach, reveling in the heady smell of John's sweat and skin. When he reached the waistband of John's trousers he backed off, unbuttoning the flies and peeling the trousers and pants quickly down John's legs. As John's cock sprang free, dusky pink and achingly hard, the smell of musk and sex and pheromones hit Sherlock's heightened senses like a physical wall, rocking him with desire and arousal. Leaving John's trousers around his thighs, Sherlock buried his face in John's crotch, stroking the side of his cock with his cheek and drawing in deep lungfuls of the delicious odour of his arousal.

John twitched beneath him, keening at the sensation of Sherlock's smooth warm skin on his erection. The sound went straight to Sherlock's cock, and suddenly he needed more. He stood up, ignoring John's bereft whimpers, and quickly shed his ruined shirt. He unceremoniously unbuttoned his trousers and pushed both trousers and boxers to the ground, stepping out of them and crawling back up over John. Almost as an afterthought he grabbed John's trousers and pulled them off, freeing his legs. John immediately spread them and wrapped them around Sherlock, urging him up for a kiss.

Sherlock moved up quickly, taking John's mouth in a fierce kiss and then breaking away. He scooted downward between John's legs and reached for his cock, stroking it softly and lowering his head to gently and carefully lick the tip.

"Oh fuck, Sherlock, yes!" John called out, shuddering with the effort of holding himself still while Sherlock lapped at his cock. Sherlock smiled to himself, fangs protruding over his lower lip, and started to lick in earnest, alternating long strokes of his tongue with little sucking kisses along the shaft and head. He wanted to take John into his mouth, to feel John's cock pressing against his cheeks and tongue, but he was afraid to try, afraid that his fangs would scratch John, cause him pain. So instead he contented himself with driving John to distraction with a long, slow tease.

"Sherlock, fuck, please," John gasped out after a time, twitching and sweating.

"What, John? What do you want?" Sherlock asked, his voice a deep baritone rumble in his arousal.

"Just, _God_… just need more. Something, please. _Please_."

Sherlock brought his hand up and licked his palm, taking care to make sure it was very wet. Then he brought his other hand to his mouth and sucked in two fingers. He dropped his wet palm down onto John's straining erection and stroked once, rearing up to look at John past his own cock, fingers still in his mouth.

John looked down at him and groaned when their eyes met, taking in Sherlock's arousal, the fingers in his mouth, his visible fangs. Then Sherlock caressed his cock again, harder, and his head fell back against the bed.

"Yes, God yes," John moaned, as Sherlock started stroking his cock in a steady rhythm. Then Sherlock lowered his other hand from his mouth and dragged the wet tips of his fingers down over John's balls and across his perineum, coming to rest just tickling John's entrance. In response John moaned again, louder, and spread his legs wider.

Gently, teasingly, Sherlock started to work one wet finger in and out of John's hole, rewarded each time he pressed inside by a loud grunt from John. With his other hand, he continued to stroke John's cock slowly and steadily, drinking in the wanton thrusting and panting his touch evoked. Finally, he had one finger buried all the way inside John's arse. He worked it back and forth a few times, reveling in the delicious stretch, pushing his face into the musky cleft where John's thigh met his groin and breathing deep, drinking in the powerful smell of sex. Beneath it, beneath the sweat and spit and precome, John's blood sang to him, a rich and intoxicating odour that clouded his senses with desire.

Overcome, he drew his head back and pulled his finger out of John's arse, but kept up his steady assault on John's cock. He looked up the sweat-covered length of John's body and licked his lips, the tips of his fangs scraping his tongue and causing a lovely sting.

"John, I need to… Can I…," he stuttered, still afraid to ask, afraid that John would react with fear or disgust. But John, amazing, wonderful John, just pulled his legs apart even wider and moaned.

"Yes, Sherlock, anything. Please," he breathed out, and Sherlock was undone.

He dropped his head back down to John's inner thigh and licked the warm skin there. At the same time, he brought his fingers back to John's tight hole and pushed two of them inside. Above him John bucked at the sensation, moaning loudly. Then Sherlock bared his fangs and lowered them to John's delicious skin, pausing as the tips of his fangs started to push against the taut flesh.

With a final deep breath, Sherlock twisted his fingers in John's arse until he found the small hard node of his prostate and pushed down, still stroking his cock with the other hand. And at the same time he bit down hard, sinking his fangs deep into John's flesh, seeking out the artery he could feel just below the skin.

John's hot rich blood surged into his mouth, filling and overwhelming his senses. At the same time he heard John bellow and felt him buck hard, but he had been expecting that and rode the vigorous thrusts with his teeth still embedded in John's thigh, hand still around his cock and fingers in his arse. The incredible taste of John's blood, so much deeper and richer than any he had ever tasted before, rolled across his tongue and down his throat as he drank with long sucking pulls from the punctures in John's leg.

As Sherlock drank, John continued to writhe, thrusting up into his hand and grinding back onto his fingers, long loud moans pouring from his throat. Quickly, all too quickly, Sherlock felt the muscles of John's passage flutter and clamp down on his fingers, felt John's cock pulsing, and then a warm gush of liquid washed over his hand. With one last hard pull he broke away from the wounds in John's thigh and rose up, letting his fingers slip out of John's arse and gently stroking his cock. As his face moved past John's groin he caught a whiff of semen, and without thinking he dropped his face down and sucked John's softening cock into his mouth, slurping up the cooling fluid. John twitched and called out at the sensation, overstimulated, and Sherlock lifted his head, allowing John's cock to slide slowly from between his lips. Smirking, he raised his head until he could see John's face, and then brought his hand to his mouth and carefully licked all of John's come from his fingers. John groaned and dropped his head back, flopping one arm over his eyes.

Sherlock climbed up the length of John's body and took him in his arms, nuzzling John's arm off of his face and dropping little kisses all over his cheeks and chin and mouth, leaving spots of blood and come behind. John opened his eyes and grinned, still panting.

"Fucking hell. That was bloody amazing! Is it always like that?" he asked, sounding breathless.

"I don't know," Sherlock answered, his voice still low and gravelly, "but I look forward to finding out." He thrust his hard cock against John's hip, and John closed his eyes and moaned.

Sherlock backed up and took John by the shoulders, urging him onto his stomach. John, pliant and spent from his orgasm, allowed Sherlock to move him and position him at will, letting out little contented hums of pleasure. Sherlock placed him stomach down in the center of the bed and then climbed on top of him and lay down, coming to rest pressed against the length of John's body from chest to shins, his hard cock nestled between John's arse cheeks.

Achingly aroused but feeling drowsy and sated from his meal of John's blood, Sherlock started lazily mouthing the tops of John's shoulders and the back of his neck, mixing long sweeps of his tongue with scrapes of fang and gentle kisses. John stretched his neck out and hummed happily, relaxed and enjoying the feeling of Sherlock's mouth on his skin.

As he kissed John, Sherlock extended his senses and again found the threads of the Glamour in John's mind. Without pausing in his gentle ministrations, he started softly stroking the tendrils of his aura along the glowing lines of Glamour, caressing them with his power. Below him, John let out a much louder moan and started to writhe beneath his body, thrusting his hips back into Sherlock's groin.

"Sherlock, fuck, what are you doing?" John gasped, arching his back and pushing his face down into the duvet.

"Mmmm, not sure. Should I stop?" Sherlock replied lazily, still dragging his tongue along John's shoulders.

"_Christ!"_ John swore as Sherlock tweaked the Glamour harder and nipped at the juncture of his shoulder and neck. "Fuck, no, don't stop. God, don't stop."

Sherlock gripped John's hips and pinned him to the bed, slowly grinding his cock down against the cleft of John's arse and dragging his teeth across the back of John's neck. At the same time he started ruthlessly tweaking the threads of the Glamour in John's mind with his aura, setting a viciously fast rhythm.

The effect was immediate and intense. John shuddered and writhed, grinding himself down into the bed and struggling against Sherlock's grip on his hips in an attempt to push back onto his cock. Unintelligible syllables poured from his mouth between whimpers and breathless gasps.

Almost involuntarily, Sherlock started thrusting his cock against John's arse, riding him through the thrashing. Waves of pleasure broke over him, the incredible friction of John's skin on his cock pulling a deep moan from his throat.

Sherlock reared back onto his knees and pulled John up by his hips, trying to position the smaller man in front of him. John, nearly incoherent, allowed Sherlock to draw him up but continued shuddering and bucking in time to Sherlock's stimulation of the Glamour. Reluctantly, Sherlock decreased the intensity of his assault to allow John to come back to himself somewhat.

After a moment, John's shuddering subsided. He knelt on the bed in front of Sherlock, body collapsed forward onto his elbows, face pressed into the duvet and arse in the air. Quiet whimpers and broken sobs continued to escape his mouth. Between his spread thighs, down one of which a thin trickle of blood still dripped, his cock hung heavy and full again. He looked completely debauched and incredibly beautiful.

"John, _fuck_," Sherlock breathed out, staring in awe at the sight before him. John did not respond, did not even seem to hear him. Sherlock gripped the cheeks of John's arse and spread them. Then he bent forward and laved John's tight pucker with his tongue, lapping around the ring of muscle before stabbing his tongue forward into the tight passage. John surged forward, his whimpers rising sharply in volume and intensity, and Sherlock rode the thrust, keeping his tongue buried deep, pushing it in and out of John's arse.

Sherlock leaned back and straightened up, watching as John jerked backward briefly, seeking more stimulation. Then he rose up onto his knees again and leaned over John's back, allowing his cock to rest in the cleft of John's arse again. As Sherlock leaned forward, John pushed back against him, groaning, his face still pressed down into the bed. Sherlock draped himself over John and reached out, opening the drawer in his nightstand and pawing around for the seldom-used bottle of lube he kept there. Finally his questing fingers encountered the plastic tube and he pulled it out triumphantly.

Straightening up again, Sherlock flipped the cap and drizzled lube onto his cock, dropping his hand to himself to smooth the slick liquid over the whole length. The feeling of his own lubed hand was intense enough to pull another groan from his mouth, and below him John twitched again at the sound. Then Sherlock dripped more lube onto his fingers, snapped the lid down, and tossed the bottle onto the floor.

Biting his lower lip hard enough that the tips of his fangs nearly pierced the skin, Sherlock brought his lubed fingers back down to John's arse and immediately pressed two inside him. At the same time, he renewed his stimulation of the Glamour in John's mind, firmly tweaking the tenuous threads with his aura. John arched his back hard at the combined attack, his head coming up off the bed and tipping toward the ceiling, his mouth open in a silent scream.

Sherlock pushed his fingers in and out of John's arse quickly for a few thrusts, and then added a third finger, twisting them to find and ruthlessly work John's prostate, at the same time keeping up his mental assault. John drew in a ragged breath and then released it in a loud wordless shout, grinding back on Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock continued to work John's arse with his fingers, staring mesmerized at the surging body beneath him, until John's incoherent shouting resolved into a repetitive, desperate entreaty.

"Please, please, please, _please…"_

The sound of John's begging shot arousal through Sherlock, the feeling crackling down his spine and lighting up his nerve endings with cold fire, and he needed to be inside John, to feel him, immediately. He pulled his fingers out of John's stretched, open hole and grabbed John's hip with one hand, holding his slick cock in the other and lining it up. Then, simultaneously plucking the Glamour hard with his mind, he pushed his entire length into John's arse in one smooth thrust.

The sensation of being inside John, the feeling as the walls of his passage clenched hard around Sherlock's intrusion, was absolutely indescribably good. Sherlock froze, fully seated in John's arse, his head thrown back as he fought to stop himself coming right then from the glorious slick _heat_ of it. The electric jolts of pleasure coursing through him pulled hard shudders down his spine, and he pressed harder against John, squeezing his hips tight enough to bruise. In front of him, John squirmed and moaned, trying to impale himself further on Sherlock's cock.

Finally, _finally_, his arousal subsided and Sherlock was able to draw back, pulling slowly out of John's hot passage and then pushing back in once, twice, three times.

"John, oh God. So good, so so good," he moaned out, lifting one hand from John's hip and dragging his fingernails through the sweat pooling along John's spine.

"Yes, yes, yes," John chanted softly in reply, arching under Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock dropped his hands back to John's hips and began thrusting in earnest, pushing in and out of John in a steady fast rhythm while gently caressing the Glamour in John's mind with his power. The sensations of John's tight arse around his cock, the hot wiling body beneath his hands, the warm comfort of John's mind when he touched it with his own, combined to create a sense of bliss that Sherlock had never before experienced.

He wanted to drown in the feeling, to bathe in every aspect of John. He wanted to bury every part of himself in the man and bask in the joy and passion and lust that John exuded. He wanted to wrap himself around John and overwhelm his senses, so that all John could feel, all John knew, was Sherlock, and all he knew was John. He wanted to taste him again.

Sherlock straightened up and reached down to John's shoulders, pulling back until John rose on his knees and leaned back against Sherlock's long lean form, gasping, Sherlock's cock still buried in his arse. Sherlock brought one hand up and gripped John loosely by the throat, dropping the other hand back to his hip, and continued to thrust shallowly in and out. He leaned his head forward, pressing his nose against the juncture of John's neck and shoulder, and looked down the length of his body to where his cock stood out from his groin, hard and deep red and slick with precome. Another wave of lust pounded through him at the sight and odour of John's arousal, and his fangs throbbed in his mouth. He drew back his lip and gently scraped them along the column of John's throat.

"John, may I?" he asked, deliberately pitching his voice low and smooth. John responded by releasing a soft whine and throwing his head to the side.

"God, yes, please," John moaned out. The words, the breathless, needy tone, shivered through Sherlock, and instantly he was right on the verge of coming. With a hiss he reared back and bared his fangs, eyes locked on John's neck.

Sherlock lunged forward and drove his fangs into John's throat, at the same time thrusting his cock deep into John's arse and positively pounding on the Glamour with his aura. John's rich blood burst into his mouth, flooding his senses with heat and lust and _John. _Sherlock closed his eyes and drew hard on John's neck, pulling out delicious mouthfuls of blood and groaning out through his nose. At the same time, John shouted out, voice hoarse and cracking, and convulsed against him, and Sherlock felt the tight walls of John's passage spasm along the length of his cock as John came.

As John rocked in his arms, the threads of the Glamour in John's mind suddenly thrummed, resonating with Sherlock's aura and sending a shocking backlash of intense raw pleasure pouring over him. Sherlock tore away from John's neck and threw his head backwards, letting out a deep guttural groan as the feeling washed through him, and then he was coming too, his hips stuttering in a staccato rhythm as he bucked against John.

Coming back to himself slowly as the wave of pleasure ebbed, Sherlock leaned forward and gently lay John down on the bed before pulling out and lying down beside him. John collapsed where Sherlock placed him, panting and still releasing the occasional soft humming moan.

Sherlock nuzzled his face into the side of John's head and then wrapped his arms around him and squeezed tight, overtaken with the desire to touch as much of John's skin as he could reach. He claimed John's legs with his own and pressed his body against the side of John's, ignoring the clammy sweat that made their skin stick together, and continued nuzzling against his hair.

With a deep breath and a chuckle, John turned his head and caught Sherlock's lips in a soft kiss before rolling over within the cage of his arms until their bodies were pressed together, facing each other.

"Never would have expected you to be a cuddler," John said with amusement. In response, Sherlock rolled his eyes and did his best to look disparaging, but did not back away or release his firm hold on John.

"Of course I'm not. Quite undignified," he said, still cuddling. John giggled and gently stroked Sherlock's face with his hand.

"That," he said, looking into Sherlock's eyes, his expression suddenly serious, "was the single most amazing thing I've ever experienced in my life."

Sherlock looked back, equally serious, allowing the significance moment to stretch out and crystalize. "Me, too," he whispered softly. A look of wonder and joy washed over John's expression at the gentle words, and he suddenly threw his arm over Sherlock's shoulder and jerked him down into a crushing hug, pushing his face into Sherlock's curls and breathing deep.

"I love you," John whispered into Sherlock's hair, so softly that he barely heard it. Sherlock rested there briefly, just enjoying the feeling of John's warm breath through his hair and John's skin against his cheek. Then he pulled back far enough to look up at John's face.

"I love you too."

The two men lay still, looking at each other, drinking in the moment. Sherlock let his eyes roam John's face, not deducing, just enjoying the sight of John's familiar careworn skin, cobalt eyes, and happy smile. Then his eyes fell to John's throat and he saw the trail of fresh blood still dripping down from the punctures left by his fangs, filling the tiny wrinkles in the skin of John's neck and leaving spots on the duvet.

"Oh hell, did I hurt you?" he asked, reaching out to trail his fingers along the wounds, his eyes jumping to meet John's.

"What?" John asked, looking confused. He brought his own hand up to touch the injury on his neck and then examined his fingers, faintly surprised. "Oh, no. Didn't even feel it, honestly. It's fine."

"How do you feel? Faint?" Sherlock asked, suddenly concerned. Had he taken too much? John just huffed a soft laugh at him and rolled onto his back.

"Sherlock, I'm fine. Really. They take more blood when you donate, and then send you home with juice and a biscuit." He turned his head again and caught Sherlock's eye, and then dropped his gaze. "Besides," he added in a softer voice, "I liked it."

Sherlock shuddered at John's words, and then leaned forward. Holding John's gaze, he extended his tongue and lapped up the little trail of blood on John's neck. John shivered and gasped, looking back intently. Satisfied once John's skin was clean, Sherlock lifted his head and licked his lips. John, watching his mouth carefully, licked his own in an unconscious echo.

"Jesus, Sherlock. How do you do that? After that, I shouldn't be able to get aroused again for a week." John's skin was flushed and he was breathing deep.

Sherlock smirked. "I'm just that good."

"Well, yeah, okay, that's true."

Sherlock lay back down and rested his head on John's chest, nuzzling and rubbing his cheek against the soft curls that grew there while John gently carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair. After several moments of silence, during which Sherlock let his mind drift without analyzing, John cleared his throat.

"So, that thing you were doing…," he trailed off, hesitant. Sherlock immediately knew exactly what he was asking, but feigned ignorance, wanting to make John say it out loud.

"Hmmm? Which thing? I did several."

"You know," John said with a huff. "The thing you were doing… in my head."

"Oh, you mean this?" Sherlock deliberately gave the threads of the Glamour a little tweak, feeling John shudder beneath his cheek.

"Yeah, that," John gasped. "Um. What is that? Is it to do with the Glamour?"

"Yes. I've never tried to manipulate a Glamour like this before, so I don't know if it's a normal aspect of the condition or a result of our… special situation. I think I quite like it, though.

"God, me too," John answered fervently. He paused for a moment, then added, "You know, the more I think about it, the more I think that there's nothing different about the Glamour you put on me."

"There obviously is, John."

"No, really. I mean, I already do basically everything you tell me to. The important things, certainly, and quite a few other things that are annoying to me, just for your convenience. I even risk my life for you on a fairly regular basis." He fell silent, and then reached his arm out and wrapped it around Sherlock's shoulders again. "And I do adore you."

Sherlock found himself smiling like an idiot at the words. He tried to stop it, to replace the grin with a more dignified expression of mild pleasure, but found that he could not. With a mental shrug, he gave up and grinned at John.

"In this case, the feeling is mutual."

"Right, exactly! I was thinking, maybe that's the difference. We both already felt genuine love for each other, so the emotional bond wasn't forced by the Glamour. Does that sound possible?"

Sherlock forwent the usual insults he liked to pull out when John tried to make a deduction and instead considered John's idea. It had merit, certainly, but could not be verified without experimentation, which would be difficult to conduct. He shrugged.

"Yes, it sounds possible." He thought for a moment about John's earlier declaration. "So, you'll do anything I ask, will you?"

John groaned and covered his eyes with his hand. "Not _anything._ God, I never should have said that out loud."

"No, probably not." He turned his face up to John and waited until John dropped his hand and looked back. Then he fluttered his eyelashes in as comically dramatic a manner as he could. "John," he said in a high, false voice, "make me tea?"

"You daft bastard," John laughed. Then he squeezed Sherlock tight for a moment before pushing him back and sliding out of bed, throwing on Sherlock's dressing gown, and heading to the kitchen.

* * *

This was all I originally intended to write when I received my prompt for the gift exchange, but then I went and created this whole AU and now I have a bunch of ideas for it. So, I will probably continue this story beyond this chapter... eventually. I'm even considering making it a whole Sherlock vs Moriarty casefic, which would be a first for me. So, if you've enjoyed it and would be interested in reading more, please stay tuned.

Also, I need to acknowledge that I drew inspiration for part of this story from the novel _Wizard's First Rule_, by Terry Goodkind. I don't want to say which part, because I don't want to give anything away if you haven't read it, but if you have you'll know what I'm talking about. Also, it's a good book, and I recommend it.


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